


The Professor: A Continuation

by CynaraM



Series: The Professor [3]
Category: Johannes Cabal - Jonathan L. Howard
Genre: AU, Ambiguous Age, Angst, Dominance, F/M, Illnesses, Shameless Smut, Submission, Teacher-Student Relationship, avert your eyes Howard, but no classroom in this one per se?, classroom au, drawerfic, fluff i hope, glovefic, if I'm going to hell, ignoring my research where it suit me, improper use of public transit, maybe later - Freeform, ménage à trois, no beta we die like men, not a doctor, ok a threesome, only a tiny bit of shame, professional misconduct, public transit sex, y'all are coming with me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26093584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynaraM/pseuds/CynaraM
Summary: A continuation of the previous Professor tale, with angst, sexy flashbacks, and an explosion at the sexy fluff factory.
Relationships: Leonie Barrow/Johannes Cabal
Series: The Professor [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1099995
Comments: 43
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

The floor of the tram shook below her feet as the vehicle rumbled over the intersection. She'd stayed late at school with Herr Cabal. Strange, wonderful things had happened there, and she was shaking with excitement. Her face felt hot. The car was packed with commuters and it stopped at every corner; time flowed as slowly as window glass. If she didn't get home to her bed soon, she was going to die of unrelieved sexual tension. 

She slipped her hand into her pocket, and the key was still there, hard and cold. The big square-handled security key might be noticed on her little keyring. She would sew a pocket into her book bag, perhaps. 

The tram stopped and people squeezed by behind her. She crowded forward as far as she could without touching the knees of the men on the bench in front of her. The tram filled up tighter than before, and there was no room to lean back again. This was, of course, the moment she would notice that she hadn't unrolled her skirt after that meeting with _him_. Its hem swung cheekily with the movement of the car. 

Someone reached past her for the pole she was holding on to, and she groaned internally. She was going to be balanced here for the rest of her trip.

But she knew that hand. Or at least, that glove. Her heart pounded in her throat. It was definitely a man's hand. The man behind her was wearing a black overcoat not unlike her professor’s, from what she could see of the sleeve. Could he have followed her from class? Was this day not over?

Then again, he might be a stranger wearing sensible clothing. She chose, instead, to close her eyes and pretend it was true. She imagined him behind her, tall and severe-looking, his pale face and his black Homburg hat. His eyes fixed out the window, but every inch of him aware of her as she was of him.

A touch ran along the back hem of her skirt- she felt the tiny disturbance in the fabric, in the air around her thighs. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, then snapped open when he pressed himself against her. And there it was - a faint smell of the lab that clung to his coat. She inhaled deeply, and she wanted to rest her head back against his shoulder, but she thought he wouldn't like that.

He bent his head. “Spread your legs.” It was hardly a breath in her ear, but she knew his voice. She widened her stance. She felt his foot pressing hers to the side. Wider. His open coat protected them from view. His body was warm against her back. 

He left her like that for some time, the air cool between her legs, the movement of the tram jostling her body against his. She became aware of the hardness in his trousers that pushed against her bottom. She pressed back subtly. She felt him take a breath.

And then, between her legs, over the cloth of her drawers, a light touch. Her cheeks flamed pink. 

***

“I would not have done that. What kind of a maniac did you think I was?”

“The kind that orders a student to unbutton her shirt, Herr Professor. And That’s why it's a fantasy,” she said over her shoulder. “Also, I didn't know you as well, then.”

“If you thought I was that stupid and indiscreet, you shouldn't have had anything to do with me.” His voice rumbled in her ear. His fingers brushed her, finding her silky wet.

“Yes, but I was swept off my feet.”

He grunted scornfully, but she thought he might be blushing. “Continue.”

***

The touch was light, but her nerves prickled awake. His body was warm and solid behind her.

He steadied her against him with a hand pressed to her stomach, and she leaned back into him. When his hand pushed higher, cupping her breast, she closed her eyes and imagined the looks on the faces of the men in the seats in front of them. He pinched her lightly, and she stifled the sound of the groan in her throat. One, two buttons, and her breast was in his hand. She imagined the men in front of her moving briefcases into their laps, arranging coats, casting half-scandalized looks at each other. The press of bodies on the bus was so tight, that no-one saw, except them.

She moved her bottom on the hard shape in his trousers. She looked like a wanton, a filthy French picture, her breast in a fully dressed man’s hand as she tried to rub her body on him in public. 

His fingers tightened on her nipple, tugging it out from her body, and her arousal made the pain into pleasure. He left her shirt open and moved his hand under her skirt. His breathing was quiet and controlled but fast, as if he couldn’t wait to touch her there. He stroked the soaking fabric between her thighs and pushed it aside to slip his fingers into her hot, wet flesh. His hand was cool, and she opened her mouth in an ‘o’ as the feel of him sent shivers through her body. 

She slitted her eyes open to see the men in front of her, eyes huge and fixed on her professor’s hand, between her thighs, under her skirt, listening to the quiet wet noises his fingers made on her. They each had a hand in a pocket, under a bag, moving rhythmically, their faces open-mouthed. 

Her legs were wide now, and he was pressing his hips against her. She felt his other hand behind her, on his trouser buttons. A moment, and she felt his hot, thick erection against her thigh. 

Again, a murmur in her ear. “Take them off.”

She hesitated a moment, but she wanted it, she even wanted them to see. She unlocked her hands from the poles to either side of her - her hands were stiff and red from how tightly she’d been clinging - and put her hands under her skirt. She peeled the panties off herself and slid them down her legs. There was a strangled moan from one of the men. She stepped out of them, leaving them on the floor of the bus.

She felt his approval in the hand on her hip, putting her where he wanted her, pushing her bottom into his lap. He stroked alongside her clitoris again, finger sliding on her aroused skin, slipping back to spread her folds open, and then he was sliding into her, hard and warm and frictionless, and if she hadn’t been holding onto the bus, she would have fallen over with the feeling of it. He stopped. She was impaled, spread, exhibited, his body large inside her and behind her. She tightened around him, feeling him, and his fingers started moving on her again. He barely fucked her, letting the movement of the vehicle and her own desperate flexes move her on him. 

She put her head back on his shoulder, put her lips as close to his ear as she could. The collar of his coat held the scent of his shaving soap from the morning. 

“Please?”

He nodded, the light stubble of his jaw gently abrading her cheek. “Now,” he said very quietly, very gently, and his arm holding her to him like an iron bar as she arched and pulsed. She felt it ripple through him as well, and she felt his breath hot on her cheek for a moment as he pressed hard into her, savagely deep. 

They were at the station. People flowed off the bus, intent only on getting to their connection in the late, grey day. He put his arm around her and led her to a double seat at the back, as the new passengers flowed on. Wetness ran down her thighs, and she felt thoroughly debauched and warm. He put her at the window and sat beside her. After a moment, he hesitantly put his arm around her, and she leaned into it gratefully. 

****

In point of fact, Cabal had spent that evening trying to convince himself to refuse any further offers of companionship from Leonie, without success. He had been weak. But that was then, and this was now. 

Cabal went to the club. It was not a dance club, though there was music and some people danced. It was a club for people with the predilections he had slowly, painfully learned he had. He had learned the etiquette. He had learned how to lead with courtesy, because otherwise one was ejected and not invited back. 

He had not been here for months. He knew how many months; it was the same as his time with Leonie. He was trying to resume his old habits, to recover his peace of mind. So: dinner out, a single glass of wine, the anticipation building on his walk to the club, the momentary feeling of uncertainty that was overridden by need. The cigarette smoke and perfume enfolded him, wiping out the night-flower and mud scent of the spring night. 

The woman seated at the bar had a tall glass of Pilsner, a finely arched nose, and delicate gold chains around her ankles, wrists, and throat. They had engaged with each other several times before. He appreciated her attention to detail. He knew what she liked, and she knew what he liked. 

“Mein Herr.” Her crooked smile was charming. “Where have you been? The ladies and I have been crying all over our face paint and wondering if you would return.” 

“I have interests and duties beyond the spanking of bottoms, madame. Perhaps you, too, should broaden your interests.” 

“So cruel. Well, that is why we like you. Are you available now? You see how desperate I am; I clutch at you when you’ve barely sat down.” 

“Not at all. That would be agreeable, thank you.” 

She liked to be spanked in public, and it wasn’t until he obliged her that he felt something wrong. There should be a rhythm to it, a silent communication that held them both. He had no sense of what she wanted. He did his part of the act as best as he could from memory, but when he stopped and she slid down to kneel between his legs, he shook his head. Perhaps it was the feeling of being watched. They attracted some attention, but not a great deal; there were other, more dramatic spectacles for the gawkers. 

“Come, let us go somewhere private.” 

But once inside the close, incense-heavy room, he felt lost. The impending arousal he’d felt on the walk to the club had evaporated. He sat on the couch (a suspect piece of upholstery, given its location) and gave her a vague look. She rose from where she had knelt on the floor and sat next to him with an ungraceful little flop. He groped for words. 

“I apologize. Anika. This has nothing to do with… you did nothing wrong. I am somewhat….” He was unable to finish the sentence. 

“It’s all right, Mein Herr. It’s happened to us all at some point. Well, not Madame, she’s insatiable, but the rest of us. Is it anything you want to talk about?” She took out a cigarette, offered him one. 

Did he? The only other alternative was to go back out into the club, and he wasn’t ready for that yet. He accepted the cigarette, and she lit it. “There is a woman.” 

“Ah. And she doesn’t….” Anita gestured at the fine chains that glittered in the half-light of the room. Romantic connections and sexual ones did not always run in tandem, here. 

“That is not the difficulty.” “She would like your chains very much.” A tiny, tender smile flitted across his face. 

“What is the problem, then?” 

But he was mute. He wanted to blame her, to say she didn’t like his work - but that would have made her sound petty. He wanted to say that he was the problem, but he did not believe that. Anika sipped her cigarette. He settled on “I disappointed her.” 

“Well. That’s unfortunate.” They sat in silence for a long time, their cigarettes burning down. He wondered why she didn’t leave, but he was glad she didn’t. At last, she tapped hers out in the ashtray. “Find me when you’d like to play again. Or just to talk.” She kissed his cheek briefly, the wisps of smoke still clinging to her, and she left him alone. 

He sat in the over-upholstered little room and observed the sensation of everything beneath his skin flaking away into weightless ash. 

After he left the room he circulated through the rooms, pretending to watch the other patrons. For once, he disliked the noise and company less than the silence and solitude of his bedroom. The club owner sat at the end of the bar, swathed in webbed black silk and rhinestones. She raised her head from her admirers and gave him a wistful smile as he left. She wiggled her fingers in an oddly cheerful good-bye. 

He walked home. Absently, he wondered what Leonie would say to him about his attempt to move on. But no, she was avoiding him, he had hurt her. It had been selfish. 

He shouldn't miss the comfort of her presence, her eager sexuality, her quick mind and kind soul. He had made himself into a thing that did not require companionship. But he could recognize excellence when he saw it. Leonie Barrow was… he groped for a term that would fit. A person of quality, perhaps. He was ashamed that his deception had harmed her, maybe made her less than she should be. That was all. 

He felt cut off from every human tie. He had always imagined that would make him feel free.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another look backwards; an uncomfortable meeting in the present.

***  
 _Some time ago…_

Madame had sworn that this person fitted his requirements exactly. “He’s an old friend, really, and the soul of discretion. No, he’s not a professional, just an enthusiastic amateur.” Cabal was wary of dealing with amateurs. With professionals, one could rely on a certain standard of conduct and quality, but Madame had given her very sincerest dibs that Cabal’s “little friend,” as Madame had said, would be… well, he didn’t care to think of the exact terms Madame had used. _Pleased_ was the gist. Generally, she spoke highly of the fellow’s gentleness and care.

Madame was absolutely reliable in this sort of referral, but he still felt an uneasiness at the informality of the situation. If the man so much as breathed upon his Leonie in a way that did not bring her pleasure, Cabal would… well, he might even complain to Madame. 

***

Leonie was whisked from the back of the private car into a softly lit hallway. The walls were covered with flocked paper in a fawn colour that looked beautifully velvety and soft. Sound fell dead here. There was no-one else in sight. 

Cabal opened a numbered door. The room was similarly dim and plush and quiet. There was a single armchair along the far wall and a solid, padded table in the centre. He removed his coat and hat and hung them carefully. He sat in the chair. 

Following the directions he had whispered to her in the back seat of the car, she undressed while he watched. It was warm and still. She could hear his breath quicken as her skin was revealed, and she smiled to herself. It felt odd to be naked in this unfamiliar room. She switched off the light, opened the door one inch, and sat on the table to wait. 

Her heart sounded very loud to her in the small room. As her eyes adjusted, she could see everything in it; the coatrack, the glasses glimmering at the small bar, the dark shape in the chair that was Cabal. Her skin prickled as she felt a change in the air pressure and a far-off sound of a door closing. 

The room lightened briefly as the newcomer opened it and entered, before mostly closing it again.

“Well. I suppose there isn’t a bank of photographers waiting to jump out from behind a curtain once I have my member lodged in this young lady?” His voice was educated; he was tallish; lean; older. There was a suggestion of an officer’s moustache. How intriguing.

“Now, young lady - or are you a young man? No, assuredly a young lady, I beg your pardon, my dear. My eyes, you know. It is dim in here. Which is just as well.” He sent an uncomfortably acute look at the chair where Cabal sat.

“Welcome, sir.” Leonie whispered. This room was made for whispers. She gave him the invitation she’d been instructed to provide. She was to perform certain acts - but she wasn’t to orgasm.

“Well. How thoughtful.” He seemed to have expected something of the kind. “Present yourself, please.” What did that mean? Leonie gave a doubtful look back towards Cabal and hesitated.

“Oh, really, you mean he hasn’t shown you…. Hm. Well, I had begun to assume I was merely to provide titillation in the personage of a randy old goat despoiling innocent flesh, but perhaps I have something to contribute to the proceedings after all. I don’t blame you, my dear, not at all. Now. Step forward and stand just here.”

And he proceeded to pose her with light, gentle touches. Her legs apart, her fingers lightly laced behind her neck. Her breasts were thrust out, and she could feel a light draft between her legs. “Chin up.” Satisfied at last, his hands wandered down her chest, tracing her breasts and nipples, and she leaned into the unfamiliar touch.

“Lovely. Your silent master over there is a lucky man, my dear.” She heard Cabal shift in his chair. 

“Now, I will show you the next position….” It was a kneeling one, with her head modestly sunk down. “Very pretty on you, child. This will also afford me the chance to remove some clothing without your watching. One of the only things to regret about ageing, I find, is the inability to remove one’s garments in an elegant fashion.”

At last he stood before her, naked and erect. His chest hair was grey, but he was lean and solid. She rather thought Cabal might look like that in forty years or so. He raised her chin delicately. “In your own time.”

This was the first part of her directions. She wet her lips, brushing his tip as she did, and she was pleased when he made an approving sound. He didn’t move, letting her work her mouth on him without interruption or assistance. “That’s good. Suck it.” He bent down and gave her breast a light smack. It surprised her. It didn’t sting for more than a second, but she could feel her skin warm, and after a moment her nipple was so hard it hurt. “Suck it harder. There’s a reason they call it ‘sucking someone off.” I want to hear noises as you move. Better,” he groaned. “Better.”

She pictured Cabal behind her, watching them. He would be just teasing himself, picturing her lips on him. 

“Now use that tongue of yours more. Since you haven’t chosen to favour me with your conversation, my dear. That’s… aah, that’s good.” He was moving now, pushing deep in her mouth. She worked to keep her tongue employed as her gag reflex threatened. She could feel herself getting terribly wet, so wet it ran down her inner thigh. She could hear both men breathing hard, between the wet sounds of her mouth. Her back started to ache, but she didn’t care. She wanted to show how good she was at this, what a precious pet. She sent one cool finger tracing along the underside of the stranger’s erection, stroking the soft skin, seeking out the sensitive spot behind. He made a sound and uttered a genteel curse in a broken voice. 

“Thank you. I rather think,” he gently pulled her off his cock, chest heaving, “that given the evening’s programme we had better move along. Now, are there any requisites for the next chapter? Position, for example?” Cabal lifted one shoulder in a shrug. 

“No,” she whispered. She was desperate to be touched. 

“Up you get on the table then, my dear. I’m no athlete these days. I think dog-fashion will do well.” 

She climbed up and went on all fours, facing Cabal. She thought he was leaning forward a little, now.

The stranger ran his knuckles along her slit. Her indrawn breath had a hint of sound in it. She looked at her professor, and then her eyes went glassy as she stopped trying to make out his face and let her attention turn inward, to the pleasure and strangeness of this encounter. 

His hand made wet noises behind her. “You, in addition to being a young woman of, no doubt, culture and erudition, are a wet little tart, aren’t you?” He pushed several fingers inside her, making her cry out in full voice. “You are soaked after that display. Lucky me. It just goes to show that one should never turn down an invitation.” 

He fucked her with his fingers as he spoke, his other fingers sliding over her clitoris. Her face creased into a mask of near-painful lust. Something about the way his fingers were sliding… and twisting…. She tightened around him. “That’s right, dear. Ahh, you are ready. Well. Why deny myself?”

His fingers moved to hold her open, and he pushed inside her, making her eyes fly open, and her muscles contract involuntarily.

“Good, good. Now… ah, you’re losing it. Managing your internal muscles is a delicate art. For now, just think of being tight around me. Think of narrowing your cunt to a finger’s width. Oooh, you little slut, that’s it. Think of it tightening all the way up inside, wrapping around me as I fuck you. Yes.” His voice was fevered now, and he pushed into her avidly. “Now relax.” He slipped a finger between her folds and stroked her as he fucked her. “That makes it happen naturally, do you feel it? Now, think of your little whore’s cunt as if it were your two fists, milking me as I fuck you. Aaah. Hold me tight. Hold me tight, you handsome little trollop. That’s it.”

She was murmuring feverishly, “yes, yes please, yes thank you, oh, oh, oh….” It was fascinating to use those muscles - she’d felt them before, but never thought of controlling them in the act. The abuse was intoxicating too; it wasn’t being used personally, she felt, but as a spice to the act. She did feel whorish, and it was wonderful. 

“You’ve been so accommodating, my dear, I wonder if your companion might allow….” He bent down, and a moment later his tongue was a hot little arrow on her clitoris, stroking and slipping over her. She curved her back up to give him a better angle and threw her head back, moaning. Oh, it felt good, oh, it felt so good, she chanted in her head.

“Ahem.” Cabal loomed before her. 

“Sir, please stop. I’m not supposed to… nnngh… I’m not supposed to come.” He was slow to respond. “Please?” She wasn’t sure what she was begging for. 

“Oh, of course. Forgive me, my dear.” He must have seen Cabal.

He pushed his fingers into her, and found her wet and wanting. He swore devoutly at the feeling of her as he sank inside. She cried out as he penetrated deep with his cock, setting up a fast rhythm that made her breasts bounce beneath her. She clenched around him, trying to please him with her new talents, and he made a guttural noise. She smiled.

Half-breathless, the stranger said to Cabal, “I think our young lady could use some distraction, don’t you?” 

Leonie had a moment of dismay. If there was anything that could have persuaded Cabal not to distract her just then, it was being told to do so. But she knew what seeing her fucked did to him. He laced his fingers through her hair. He found her mouth with his cock, and let the stranger’s thrusts push her back and forth between them. She groaned around Cabal, and she tried to show him how grateful she was, how transported and whorish and happy.

She could feel how hard he was, the blood rushing under his skin, the demanding push of his hips. He tightened his fingers in her hair to hold her just so, withdrawing and watching her try to follow him, get him back in her mouth. “Good. _Ach,_ L-“ he cut himself off on a sharp indrawn breath. 

The stranger was pushing hard now, breathing in half-groans. He pulled out, and Leonie felt the hot spatter of his seed on her bottom. 

Cabal had her on her back in a moment, and he slid between her thighs in one shocking push. She cried out, almost orgasming around him, but his whisper was hot and fierce in her ear. “No. Not yet.” He fucked her into the cushions of the table, and there was nothing in the world but him, arced tight over her. His fingers were on her clit, and she begged, “please. _Please_ ”

The next few moments were eternities, him pressed deep and huge inside her before he answered “yes” and she fell apart, completely apart, spasming and shrieking and held down by his beautiful strong body above her and inside her. In the space afterwards, Cabal kissed her and held her to him, still inside her. 

When, some time later, the world focussed again and she was able to draw a breath, she laughed out loud. “Oh. My.”

The stranger’s face appeared above her, upside-down. He had dressed himself. She thought he was smiling. “Thank you so much for the invitation. Truly, a delight. I must thank Madame, eh?” He bent and kissed her forehead, and she felt the tickle of his moustache. The door closed behind him.

Cabal took a further moment to regain his composure, still dressed with his trousers most of the way down his legs. In a few minutes they were curled up together in the overstuffed chair, the dim light over the bar switched on again as they talked in soft voices.

Cabal was inclined to grumble. “That impertinent antique.”

“He did find fault.”

“There is nothing at all wrong with you.” He kissed her hair. “Shall we return to my house? Are you needed elsewhere?”

“Not yet. That sounds lovely.” 

Back at his house, she bathed, then went into his study like it was home. He was waiting with tea and embraces. He wrapped her in a soft blanket that was normally folded over the arm of the loveseat. It was a fuzzy patchwork of reds, purples, and greens, an unexpected thing in the dark greys and blues of his office. It enveloped her head to toe. 

Normally she liked to sit at his feet while she came back down to earth, but the aftershocks of the orgasms had drained away on journey home, and she just wanted him close.

They chatted quietly about the guest and what she had enjoyed, and she felt the strength of his arms holding her through the blanket. She kissed the angle of his jaw and smoothed his short sideburn gently. His cheek was stubbly; he hadn’t had time to shave 

“You liked being called names, I noticed.”

She shifted. It seemed embarrassing now. “Yes, I did.”

“Interesting.” His lips were touched by a near-smile. She felt the folds of the blanket stir along her thighs, felt his arm move. She caught her breath. Surely she should be sick to death of sex by now. But oh, knowing his hand was seeking through the folds of fabric… his fingertips brushed her thigh. He found her wet slit and ran his fingers gently along it. She buried her face in his shoulder as he stroked her gently to a shaking orgasm, her hand fisted in his shirt, making little sounds he caught in kisses. 

After, she was suffused with a deep warmth. She was lax. She was safe. She was cared for and quiet. “I could sleep.” 

“Then do.”

“Really?” She knew he was in the middle of a project. Part of his secret researches. “I could move to the loveseat so you could work at your desk?” She doubted she'd sleep, then, but she could rest and listen to him write.

“Would you like to stay like this?” His voice was so gentle, tripping over its light accent. 

A smile like the dawn broke across her face. “I would.” She kissed his jaw. “Thank you.” Why, he wondered, was she always so grateful for the smallest kindness? She should be accustomed to consideration. 

She dozed. He spent a few minutes watching the face of the woman he held in his arms, and then he, too, allowed himself to drift in the warmth and comfort of their embrace.

***  
***

_Now_

Cabal didn't know why he was invigilating the year's final exam in the nude. It was careless of him. And drafty. He had to pass out the rest of the exams before returning to his seat, which would give him some cover from the eyes of the students. How had he found himself here? Yes, he was distracted, but…. “A dream. How tiresome.”

Leonie looked up from her seat, not a hair out of place. “You're slipping, Herr Professor Doctor Cabal.” She reached out to him, and he came awake in his bed, eyes stinging. 

***

She had feared - hoped - that he would seem diminished, unattractive. They sat in a sidewalk café at her invitation. She had something to show him and questions she wanted answered.

He frowned at a speck of sugar on his saucer, dabbed at it with his middle finger, and brushed it off to the ground. He was fussy and crabby and he probably robbed graves. If she put that sugared finger between her lips and swirled her tongue around its pad, she knew how his face would change. His lips would soften and part in surprise, and then he would get that look, the one that thrilled her like she was falling and she knew he would catch her. 

She thought about unbuttoning his trousers. Sometimes he was masterful and exacting and beckoned her over with a provoking imperiousness, but sometimes he abandoned himself to her mouth. He let his head fall back, baring his long, pale throat while she went slow, slow, until he was groaning quiet words and whispering her name like it made him harder. 

Her throat was dry. She’d finished her tea, and he was watching her now. Watching her watch him. He saw the moment when she remembered. He gave her a small, tight smile. “You are not the only one who thought we would be better meeting in public. Whatever you were thinking, I would have done it.”

“Are you a mind reader now, Cabal?” 

“No. But I can calculate possibilities based on available data.” He was thinking about the two of them together. She could feel it.

She watched the sparrows fight over a dropped packet of sugar. Their beaks pierced it, and the flurry of wings and chirps filled the silence. Cabal stared down the street, apparently lost in thought.

“I’d thought you might be. I’m not sure. Contrite.” The mornings were warming. He could see her breath when she spoke, but only because the morning was damp. 

“I am not. I will never be.” He’d answered too quickly.

“It’s sick, Cabal. Healthy, happy people don’t cut up bodies in their basements. You need help.”

“I am as healthy as you are. How dare you speak to me as if I was a monomaniac.”

“I know why you do it.”

“You do not.”

“But I do.” Something in her voice made Cabal turn away from whatever he had been examining in the distance, made him look at her. 

She had never seen that look on his face before. There was a flicker of something dangerous there. They had played at danger so many times, but now she realised she had never seen him angry, never seen him ready to run or fight. His hands were relaxed, one on his knee, one resting lightly on his Gladstone bag, so how had she sensed, for an instant, a motion towards violence in him?

“You were born in Germany to Liese and Gottfried Cabal.” He flinched minutely, and she felt a moment of triumph. “You have one brother. It was difficult to trace you, but it’s all there. You still use your birth name. They brought you to England when you were eleven or so. I found the ship’s passenger list.” He made no response. He had recovered his sangfroid, though, and he watched her coolly.

She took out a notebook. She had recopied the information last night, the salient notes all in one place, so she could do this easily. It was not going to be easy.

Eight years ago, there was….” She broke off. She slid a photograph towards him. Cabal pushed it away with barely a glance, then pulled it back. He looked at it. He closed his eyes. 

Her research had been thorough. She had planned to read through it all. The tragedy, the family, the news reports of the funeral, the overflowing church, a young pallbearer who collapsed halfway down the church aisle. But somehow she hadn’t imagined the look on his face as he thought of it. 

The photograph showed a packed church, filled with white lilies and sunlight. A pale young man was in the picture behind the priest. His fist was clenched around something indistinct, pale fabric or cloth. His expression was cold iron. 

Cabal held the photograph lightly between his fingertips, as if it might burn him. His voice was faint and remote. “The coffin was so light, when we carried it. There was hardly anything left of her at all.”

“It was a fire.”

He nodded, his eyes still fixed on the coffin in the photograph. 

“Were you there?”

“The ashes were still warm when I reached the house. I had been on a school excursion to the Museum of Natural History.” He placed the photograph on the table and pushed it back towards her. There was a silence. She watched him reassert control piece by piece, until he was once again the man she knew. 

She had wept for him in the dry London archive.

“You were expelled from your pre-med program the semester after. They wouldn’t say why. You attended three more schools over the next four years, leaving under a cloud each time. I couldn’t find any record of you after that.”

“Very good, Miss Barrow. Ten out of ten. You have an aptitude for this kind of investigative work.”

She played with her cup of coffee in the saucer. She didn’t want to feel a glow at his praise. She didn’t like the barb in his tone. “What you do. Your real work. It’s for her, isn’t it?” That wasn’t what she’d meant to ask. 

“Yes.” 

“You steal the bodies from hospitals?”

“Why should I tell you?”

She wondered if he had ever spoken of it before. “Because you lied to me.”

He fixed his eyes on a shop across the street. “I have lied to so, so many people.” 

“And why should I be any different.” It hurt.

“Why should I tell you? What difference could it make?”

She had thought, despite everything, that there was an equality between them. Not of power - he could overmatch her in any way she could think of: money, experience, strength, authority. He could tell the school she was mad or cheating or a slut, and they would believe him. She didn’t have many illusions about that. But there had been something inside him she’d trusted. Not rationally, but unshakeably. But now…. “What now?”

He swallowed. “I could go.”

She nodded. “When?” She wondered if he’d wanted her to say something else.

“Immediately, if necessary.” She thought again about the Gladstone bag. “A week or two, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.” Stay, she wanted to say. Stay and forget about this nonsense. I love you, it turns out. He pushed back his chair and stood. It felt like he was taking all the warmth and love and light with him.

He nodded stiffly. “Please accept my apologies, fraulein. And my sincere good wishes for your future.”

“Heavens, Cabal. What do you have to be sorry for?” She sounded as bitter as he had.

He seemed about to say something, but he bowed briefly and left.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An illness brings Leonie and Johannes back together. We got yer romance, we got yer Victorian melodrama, we got yer sickbed scenes, come one, come all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a doctor! I'm ignoring my research whenever it suits me! Do not accept medical advice from fic writers.

Cabal’s lock made a flimsy noise. He entered his new flat with a glance back over his shoulder. This was a temporary situation, while he thought about his next steps. He didn’t want to teach again. Something solitary this time, he thought, as he closed the door behind him and engaged the deadbolt he had installed himself. The flat still stank of fresh paint, a messy job that gummed up the old door hardware and dripped onto the skirting boards.

Dropping his gloves and hat on the hall table, he sorted through the mail from his forwarding service. He hoped for something interesting in the pile. What he really wanted was his work. He wanted it badly, but he did not allow himself to be impatient. The old plan no longer met his requirements, and he was done with regret. He had given himself an evening to experience the sensations connected with Leonie Barrow, and he had done that, with the aid of alcohol. But his mind still wanted to slide away from the task of re-establishing himself here, as if there was any way of going back.

At the bottom of the stack, there was a envelope marked with the school’s crest. The two weeks of grace Leonie had given him had allowed him to end the year on decent terms with the school administration. He was expecting his final pay and a listing of his students’ marks. He opened the envelope, pocketed the cheque, and held the rest over the waste paper basket for a moment. He wavered. He tucked it into his interior pocket. 

He made himself tea. He decided to discard the list unread. No, he would burn it, to keep himself from changing his mind. He made three separate resolutions to burn the list, and then he sat down with his tea, lit his desk lamp, and unfolded the paper. His students had done poorly, as usual. Not more poorly than the other students, of course, but mediocrity reigned. Of course, he found the name he had wanted to read. He ran a fingernail over it. Barrow, Leonie. The examination marks were listed next to each name, and he looked at hers, feeling keenly that he was acting like an idiot. SCI: NMA. ECON: NMA.

Her courses were all like that: no mark assigned. It must be a clerical error? No. Something had happened. Something dramatic, if it had interfered with her grades so comprehensively. He poured himself a glass of whisky. It did not warm the chill in the pit of his stomach. He stood. He would pack a bag. He could be there in two hours.

The telephone rang. Only one being had the number. Cabal realized it was Thursday, and Horst was thoroughly capable of racing to his side if he didn’t answer. It had been part of their agreement. He picked up the voice receiver, not bothering to lean close to the speaker. “I’m fine. Good bye.” 

A tinny voice came down the line. “If you put down that receiver - if you put down that receiver, Johannes, I’ll run right over. What if you’re being held hostage by an evil, underdressed demoness? Besides,” Horst added cheerfully, “if I let you get away with this once, you’ll do it every week.”

Cabal snarled. “I am fine. Everything is fine. How are you? You are fine. Good bye.”

“Keep going like this, Johannes, I’m putting my boots on.”

“Stop. Stop. Very well. What do you want to know?”

“Is the demoness wearing something that shows off her figure?”

“There is no demoness, Horst. And one simply calls them demons. Their apparent gender is irrelevant.”

His brother took pity on him. “You sound distressed, little brother. Missing your old haunts? The chatter of happy students?”

Cabal wrestled with himself in spirit. The shortest path out of this conversation was the truth. Horst, of course, knew that, and Cabal hated him for it. “You remember the young woman I mentioned?”

“…Yes. ‘Mentioned’ is a bit strong. If you recall, I heard her breathing in the background one Thursday, and I dragged a name out of you using threats of violence, public humiliation, and tickling. But of course I remember you ‘mentioning’ Leonie.”

“You know she and I are no longer….“ Cabal normally disdained ellipses. They were a syntactical weakness. _Pull yourself together._

Horst sighed. “Ah. I didn’t know for certain.”

“I just received her marks, and I suspect something has happened to her.”

Horst’s voice took on a note of concern. “Do you think it’s anything to do with you? Vampires, rival… scientists, old enemies or whatnot?”

Cabal shook his head impatiently before realizing Horst couldn’t see him. _You are a disaster_ “No. No, I wouldn’t have left if I’d thought that was possible.”

“Then stay out of it.” Before Cabal could reply, Horst continued in a firmer tone - “I know you’re worried, and it would be awfully appealing to turn up on a white horse, but once a lady’s told you to make yourself scarce, you have to do it. No checking in to see if she’s all right. No dropping by and borrowing a cup of sugar. Stay away, Johannes. I mean it.” 

“You’re,” Johannes stopped. He made himself think. Horst was often right about these things. _Look at it from Leonie’s perspective._ “You’re right, of course. It would be invasive.”

“Absolutely. Her brother would come after you with a cricket bat.”

“Hm. I believe Leonie used to play field hockey.”

“You don’t want to cross those girls; they’re terrifying. So, let me tell you about this goldfish-swallowing gag.”

***

Cabal stood on Leonie’s doorstep. Horst had been right, he knew it. He had no excuses. There was no real reason to believe that Leonie was in danger, but _what if she was?_

He had accessed the school’s records at ten o’clock yesterday evening, using his unreturned staff keys and a short pry bar. He had looked through the ledgers, the head teacher’s daybook, and the principal’s meeting schedule, but he didn’t find anything. Either the school was as confused as he, or the situation had been under-recorded. He could have gone back to his new flat in the city, followed up with the administration by letter, and had a reply in a day or two. He had meant to do that.

It was now seven in the morning, and he was about to make a terrible mistake. He knocked on the front door. It was a quiet street in an old garden suburb, now part of the town. The house was set back from the foot pavement and hedged around. Now, in the late spring, the garden was untidy with last year’s dead annuals, and the shrubs hadn’t seen a pruning saw in years.

An elderly lady answered the door in a neat dress covered with an apron. The apron was spotted with blackberry jelly. Her hair was bundled into a lopsided bun. 

“Are you Doctor Baldwin?” Her voice had the sharp quaver of age. “I don’t know where you’ve been. My great-niece is terribly ill.”

“Yes,” he said. “I am the doctor. Please take me to her.”

***

Leonie’s aunt led him up a set of broad stairs. There were little accumulations of dust in the corners that trembled and drifted in the wake of her skirts. Her wedding ring clicked on the bannister, loose on her withered hand. “She’s barely been up all day, poor child. She usually waits on me hand and foot, when she isn’t studying. She studies terribly hard. I wonder if that isn’t why she’s ill? These exams are awful things, aren’t they? She went to bed with a terrible headache. You are Doctor Baldwin?”

“Yes.” And then they were at Leonie’s room, and he forgot about the aunt. He had been expecting an influenza. A concussion, maybe. It was far worse. 

The room was dark, and Leonie whimpered as he pulled back the curtain to see her better. Her face was pink and her lips were dry. Her hair was lank. He was no longer afraid she would be angry. He was afraid she would not know him. “Leonie,” he said gently. “Leonie?” Her eyes opened for a moment, but she flinched from the sunlight. She whimpered again. 

The smell of wet ash was sharp in his nostrils. He knew without looking that the grate was clean, that the scent was in his mind. It smelled like the end of the world. _Why. Why, why why_ why. There was not an answer. His helplessness was swept aside by rage. “Why did you not call me?” Whether the woman knew him or not, she should have called him, he thought irrationally. Leonie could have died and he would never even have known. She must have been lying here for days under inadequate care. His Leonie, who had slept in his arms and made him blush. His vision wavered like mirage-heat. 

“I did! Or at least….” Mrs. Barrow hesitated. She looked tired. “Might the message have been misdirected at your office?” 

Cabal examined Leonie’s pulse, her joints, and after a moment’s hesitation, palpitated her neck. She cried out in pain. He bared his teeth in a private spasm of horror. It was obviously a meningitis. Maybe the aunt had contacted the doctor, maybe she had not. In any case, he was the only one here. Leonie needed hydration, sulphonamides, and good nursing. He turned to the bewildered aunt. “Do you have…? Never mind. Is there a neighbour who has a telephone?”

“Yes, next door… will Leonie be all right, doctor?” 

“She is extremely ill. She will recover.”

***

Cabal had a cold cloth on Leonie’s face and another on her chest. He changed them out regularly. The minute he had closed the door on Mrs. Barrow, he had stripped off his coat, vest, and tie, and set to work. 

Now, he held a tumbler to Leonie’s lips. “Drink this. Drink. Now.” She took little sips when he demanded it. Saline fluid trickled into her veins from an intravenous bottle. He would start her on the sulpha soon, just as soon as she’d taken in a little more water. He did not know if the sulpha would work. He did not know if he had reached her in time. She looked thin to his eyes, tired under the illness. 

***

“Miss Barrow, are you aware? ” The words pierced the haze that enfolded her. 

“Johannes?” Could it be him?

“Yes, it is I. I apologize for the intrusion.” His voice was quiet. It didn’t stab at her ears. But oh, her aching head. 

She opened her eyes. His face was in shadows - he had closed the curtains and the room was blessedly dim. He sat in her desk chair, at a small remove from her bed, but he leaned towards her. “I thought it was you, but…. I feel awful.” She let her eyes fall closed. She had been worried about something. What was it? Oh. “Where is my aunt?”

“She has gone to your father’s.”

Leonie’s eyes opened again, in alarm. Without help, Auntie would lose her way. “She’s not very well.” 

“In the presence of a hired nurse. She is cared for. But, Leonie.” It was so good to hear him say her name again. “You will have realized that you are severely ill. If you would prefer, I can arrange for nurses, a doctor. But please let me stay until they can come.” His words were coming fast now. “You have a meningitis, and if left untreated, the consequences could be….” He paused for an urgent moment. “…Mortal.”

Mortal. She didn’t feel like she was dying, but how did that feel? She certainly felt horrible. She wanted to know how he’d come here, what had brought him, but she was too tired to ask. “No. That is, the doctors and the nurses. Bring them if you want. But stay? I’d like….” She wasn’t too tired to move her hand. He took it in both of his. He knelt by the bed. 

“I shall stay.”

*****

He prepared the hypodermic and injected the sulphonamides into the intravenous valve. He took her temperature again. He checked her for symptoms of dehydration. He cajoled water into her. Leonie had subsided into silence, from exhaustion or pain or the confusion caused by the overheating of her brain. That precious human brain, so fragile. 

He was scrupulously professional. He worked at cooling her fever. He spooned broth and soft foods into her, though she groaned and turned away. By the afternoon, she was a little cooler, but he sponged her bare arms with cool water. When he turned her arm to blot a stray droplet, he saw something terrible: blood-red bruises bloomed on her skin. He cursed, silently and comprehensively. It was a new symptom. This would be a long and painful night.

****

Much later, Johannes Cabal straightened and winced. He wrung out a cloth, took a fresh one from the makeshift icebox and gently put it on her forehead. He took a few steps to ease the stiffness in his muscles. He found a cold cup of tea he had made hours ago and drank it. He looked for a chair, but he had filled it with medical instruments and clutter. Too tired to shift them, he sat on the floor, his back against her narrow bed.

What did she need to know, if this was his only chance to tell her?

“I am sorry. I am sorry I disappointed you. I am sorry I kept the truth from you. I can’t be sorry we.... Perhaps I should be, but I’m not. I’m not sorry about my work. Least of all now. If I had worked harder, if I had risked more, perhaps I would have something to help you.” He let his head fall back against the comforter. What was the point of it all, if he could not keep her safe? After eight years, all he had to fight the dreadful inflammation was an old drug and simple nursing. 

So, he nursed. He held a bowl when she vomited. He kept her clean and cool. He explained what he was doing while he worked, in case she was more aware than she seemed. The night came on, and she seemed worse. In the long, anxious pauses, he wondered what he would do to cure her. What avenues, what desperate measures could he try? _What they are yet I know not, but they shall be the terrors of the earth._ The intravenous line slipped out of the vein somewhere in the night, and he removed it. She was hydrated, and she’d had the correct dosage of the sulpha. 

He held her hand when she was restless. His voice seemed to soothe her, so he read to her, a novel he found in her bedroom, old collections of poetry from the aunt’s room. She opened her eyes sometimes, and he didn’t know if she understood who he was or what was happening to her. There was a knock on the front door, but he ignored it: curious neighbours, maybe even the mythical Doctor Baldwin. He told her about Horst’s many girlfriends, all of whom remained fond of him to this day. About their parents. About the seabirds and the wind on the deck of the ship that had brought them to England. He told her of his first love. He told her about the filagreed book he had stolen in a cursed library in Paris. 

“…In the end, I was in Ultima Thule alone. I freed the sled dogs to forage for themselves. I went on by starlight, hoping to find the isthmus where the ship was to come. The dawn comes quickly in those latitudes, and it seemed like a moment, and the light of the sun, still below the horizon, lit up the glacier shelf above me. It was like a vast, translucent opal, all blue and white, and the sky burned pink and orange….” He spoke to her for hours, until his voice was ragged and he started to fall asleep in the middle of his words. The dawn came here, too. He had worked for days and nights before, but never like this, watching someone’s every breath and sigh and movement for signs of recovery or decline. He had nothing else he could do for her. 

He stretched arthritically on the braided rug by her bed. He fell asleep within seconds. 

***

He awoke several hours later, in full morning light. She had made no sound, had barely moved, he was sure of it. 

She was sleeping peacefully. His hands flew over her again, checking her pulse, gently palpitating her neck. 

“Ouch.” Her voice was weak but clear. Her eyes opened and focussed. “Stop that.” 

He was rumpled, unshaven, in his shirtsleeves. His cuffs were rolled up to his elbows. His hands had tensed into fists. She saw his eyes squeeze shut, and she saw him turn away. When he turned back, he looked relieved. 

“You are doing better.”

“I suppose I am. Thank you.”

“Here. Have some…” he cast around “…cold tea.”

“I am dying to use the washroom, actually.”

He actually smiled. “Very well. Can you stand?”

She could, just about. He supported her until she was sure of her balance, and he stayed close even after that. Afterward, he cleared the chair so she could sit while he changed her sheets. She watched him smooth the pillows into the corners of the pillowslips and snap the top sheet into alignment in one crisp movement. She tried to comb her hair with her fingers. “I could use a bath, I’m afraid. And so could you. You look dreadful.”

“Later. For now, sleep.”

She was surprised to find that she could. She was exhausted again, and she fell asleep to the sound of him running the water in the bathroom. 

**  
Cabal lay in the tub. She would be well. The moment of relief when she awoke, clear-eyed and no longer suffering, had been heady, overwhelming. Already, she was rebounding with unbelievable speed, as the young and strong did. He wished he could stay to see her on her feet. 

He sat up and soaped his chest. The water was cooling, and when he got out, he should... leave? No, not yet. But he should contact the nursing agency. They could send someone this afternoon, and he would go. Another day or two, and she would be well enough to care for herself, he judged. 

***

When she woke, he was washed and shaved and the water was running again. He helped her into the tub and he washed her hair. his strong fingers felt like heaven on her scalp. He left the light off, because it still made her eyes hurt, but she was feeling so much better. He dried her carefully but impersonally and found her a fresh nightgown. She was tired again and she slept until the late afternoon, when Johannes came in with a tray. 

“I did not intend to linger, once you were out of danger.” It was not quite an apology. “The agency cannot send a nurse until the evening.”

“A nurse?” She seemed surprised. “Oh, of course. You must have things to do, but I don’t know if I need a nurse now. I think I’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“You should stay in bed,” he said severely. “You are vulnerable to a secondary infection until you are fully well. No school or household work for at least another week.” Then he realized he had overstepped. He was not her lover any more. 

But she was smiling. “I will take it under consideration, Herr Doktor Professor. But don’t go yet. At least, stay long enough for us to talk. I think you saved my life, so you can’t deny me a chat.”

“Did I indebt myself?” He almost smiled back. She was teasing him again. “Very well. How did your illness come on?”

She thought back. “I was studying, and I started to come down with something. I often get sick after examinations, so I just thought it was starting early. I was wondering if it was bad enough to keep me home, when I got this dreadful headache.” Her eyes darkened. “Everything’s confused after that, except for bits and pieces. I remember your arrival, though I wasn’t sure if it was real at first. And then our talk. After that...’ she raised a hand and let it fall. “Bits and pieces. You were always demanding I eat or drink something. And you spoke to me, though I wasn’t really awake.’ Leonie took a breath and looked down at her hands. “And I was very, very glad you were there.”

He said nothing. He felt discomposed, and he didn’t trust himself to speak. She broke the silence. “What if I wanted to understand about your work?” 

“I don’t know.” His heart pounded in his ears. “I’ve never tried to explain it. Would it change anything?”

“I do want to, Johannes. If you want me to understand. I - come here, will you?”

Cabal had intentionally put himself at a distance from the bed. Now, she had asked him to close that distance. Looking wary, he did so. 

“No, sit. Sit here. Sit right - if you don’t want to, that’s fine, but if you do, would you _please_ -“ he sat on the bed. “Thank you.” The afternoon light was golden, and he had not yet lit the lamps. She could see the lines of fatigue and care in his face. Her eyes tried to catch his. “I have missed you terribly. And when I heard your voice, and I heard you being rude to my aunt, I was so glad I could have cried.”

Here, so near to her, he could not trust himself. He took refuge in harshness. “And so you would have us make the same mistake over again?”

But she knew him, she was ready for that. “Stop that. I’m not making any promises, but I had time to think, after you left. I still think your work is horrible, don’t mistake me. But when I found out, I was frightened. I made a hasty choice. I would like to try to make a different one. If you want.”

His face had changed as she spoke, from scorn to a tentative, wary look. He looked at her. Her curls had dried, and she looked like a Botticelli maiden, though they were a little askew from being slept on. Her horrible flannel nightgown had bows sewn to the collar. She leaned towards him, an earnest look in her eyes, and her hair fell around them like a curtain as she rested her forehead against his. He didn’t withdraw. She took a breath and let it out. “I love you. I don’t know what either of us will do about that, but I love you, and I don’t want you to go.”

He managed, in a ragged whisper, “I don’t want to go either.”

“Good. We’ll start from there.” And his Leonie smiled, and she kissed him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonie and Johannes kiss and make up. And hug and make up. And... well, read the chapter, okay? But not to your grandmother.

They sat together as the shadows lengthened. He left her only to light the lamps, and their low glow haloed her face.

They had talked of little things, mostly. The new flat he hated, the novel by her bed, his nursing experience. The sky was alight with sunset when she freed her hand to run the tip of her little finger gently along the side of his. When he looked in her eyes, there was a light he knew well. She must have seen his hesitation, because she breathed, “please?” in ardent supplication, and it was wanton, utterly wanton. His mouth went dry. 

“You want,’ he said thickly. He started again, but it was too late. You want me to….” Leonie looked at him enquiringly. He tried to explain. “What we have done in the past takes an extraordinary level of trust.”

She nodded, accepting his premise. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

“And.” He cast about. “Are you suggesting you would like to engage in intimacies? Now?”

He hadn’t expected Leonie to dissolve into snorting, red-faced giggles she muffled in her comforter. The burning in his blood dampened somewhat. “Intimacies,” she said. She nodded seriously before laughing at him again.

He was scowling, but he was also blushing. “I regard them as intimate, yes. Even when done between strangers, they require….” 

“Yes, fine, agreed. I also said I loved you, Johannes. That’s reasonably intimate.”

“You were at death’s door not twenty-four hours ago.” His mind shied away from _loved you,_ it was too much, but surely she was tired, ill.

“Why, Professor.” She moved her lips close to his ear. “Are you worried you’re literally going to fuck me into the hospital?” He stopped breathing for a second, and then she felt his throat work as he swallowed; he heard her smile in response. “I can take it, I promise. I’ll tell you if I’m tired. Just don’t ask me to do anything athletic.” She sat back, so she could see him properly. His face gave away nothing, but she could feel him waver, and she smiled again. “Were you suggesting we simply hold hands from now on?”

It was her strength that steadied him, as it always did. He took a moment. He went to the quiet place in his mind, where everything was simpler. He leaned back. He assessed her coolly. “I didn’t assume I was going to push your knees apart in your sickbed and pet you until you started shaking, no.”

She went red, and her mouth opened. He tilted his head and gave her a cool smile. He knew exactly what to do next. “On the bed. On your back, like this.”

She was tangled in the bedclothes, and the more she tried to untangle herself, the worse it got. It would have helped if she’d actually looked at the sheets, instead of watching him with that half-flustered, half-hungry gaze that made him hard. Pretending not to watch her, he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. “You will attempt to be quiet,” he remarked. “Your neighbours don’t need to know about your intemperate appetites.”

She finally extricated herself and cleared the sheets to the side. She stood, shook her nightgown out, and lay down. He stood over her. She loved this moment when her heart pounded, when she didn’t know exactly what would happen next. 

He bent and picked up the hem of her nightgown - she had, after all, made sure it was modestly arranged solely so he could push it up over her legs and expose her - but then, he let it drop. Is it possible he didn’t mean to… to do those things he’d just said? She _really_ wanted him to do those things. 

“What,” and his voice was depthlessly cool and calm, “do you call this?”

“...You’ll have to be more specific.”

He picked up the hem again - she could feel the breeze, she really was getting very wet - and she gasped when she heard it start to tear. 

“I don’t wish to see this _article_ again. Use it for rags.” He tore it up through the collar. The air made her skin prickle, but his eyes raking over her, the ill-concealed hunger under the coolness, made her flush hot. He unclasped his shirt cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, baring his forearms, compact muscle and pale blond hair.

He pulled her to the edge of the bed, put one firm hand on her chest, and knelt between her legs. She knew what was coming. His face was loose with desire as he looked her over again. But for a moment, he waited. He pillowed his cheek on her stomach, just one slow breath with his skin against hers. Then his lips brushed her belly in a kiss, and he bent between her thighs. 

She hissed through her teeth with the delicious, familiar feel of his mouth on her. He put her thighs on his shoulders and pulled her into him. _Mine._ She ran her hands through his silk-pale hair until he pushed his fingers into her, and she suddenly needed to hold on to the mattress. 

She tried her best to stay quiet. Two fingers became three, and she realized he was stretching her, getting her ready for him. She groaned approvingly. “Yes. Please. Please.”

She didn’t have to beg for long. He wiped his mouth with a swipe of his wrist and turned her over. “Say it again.”

_“Please.”_

She did gasp when he entered her - not hard and fast, but completely. His fingers teased her clitoris as he thrust smoothly between her thighs. He bent down, kissed her back, and thrust carefully into her again. He was going to go slow, she realized. But she didn’t want slow and delicate and careful. “I’m not made of porcelain.”

“Really.”

He sounded quite calm, and it made her even more frustrated.

“I’m fine. Won’t you...?” 

“Won’t I what, Miss Barrow?”

She pushed back at him, trying to show him. He stopped her. “If you want it, you have to ask. Politely.”

She was going to scream if he kept treating her like a delicate invalid. She half-turned to look at him. “Professor Cabal. Please... please just fuck me. Hard. Make me… I need it. But now. Hard. Please.”

It had started plaintive, but as she spoke, his eyes hooded and she felt him twitch inside her. She tightened around him as she spoke, and she saw it on his face when he felt it, and by the end of the sentence it was a simple plea. 

“Put your hands on your breasts.” He stroked his palm down her spine. “If I hear anything other than “please” or my name out of you, I will stop immediately.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It is a precaution.”

“Please, Johannes?” She smiled. He bent down and kissed her, and he did, oh heavens he did. He fucked her with a wicked snap of his hips. His fingers tangled in her hair to pull her head back, and she had to bite her wrist to keep herself quiet. She pushed back at him, bare and shameless and hungry. _Give me everything. I almost lost you._

It was ragged and filthy and it eclipsed the world for both of them. She felt his hands go tight and his breath stutter, and she knew he was barely in control. “Please. _Please,_ Johannes.” She realized that was her, breathing it through her clenched teeth. 

He replied with a groan. “Stop moving. Just take it. Just feel.” And she did and she keened quietly into her wrist as she became overwhelmingly aware of his heavy cock pushing her open, his fingers delicate on her clit, sliding in her wetness. “Take all of me, Leonie.” There was nothing delicate about it, and she loved it.

Leonie didn’t have a clear sense of how much time had passed, but it seemed very soon that she was begging and saying his name rather loudly as great waves of pleasure ground through her, making her arch and cry out, caught between the bed and her inexorable lover. A moment later, he spilled deep inside her. She loved the way his lips parted when he came, the way his spine stiffened into a line like ink slashed across a page. It wasn’t until she weakly batted at his hands that he stopped coaxing aftershocks from her limp body. From the depths of her pillow she spoke some slurred words. “Immgngthiibtaaa w’n ‘m nnty.”

“What? Speak clearly.” He was on his guard immediately. He leaned over her, a crease of concern between his brows. Was she having a stroke? Had the activity burst a blood vessel...?

“I said,’ she said slowly and distinctly, a dreamy look on her face, “I’m going to be thinking about _that_ when I’m ninety.”

Not even Leonie saw Cabal laugh often. She saw him caught off guard, tousled, nude, and golden, laughing with the kind of happiness and relief that are a short step from tears. She tried to memorize it, and then she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him as he laughed.

They shared the tiny bed, after. They were quiet for a long time, and Leonie fell asleep in his arms. She blinked awake, stretched, and embraced him. He kissed her hair and kept his arms around her. “So, what have you planned for me now?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. I just know I don’t want to give you up.”

His chest was still for a moment, and his arms tightened around her. “You could have died. You were very ill.”

“Ow. Let go. I’m fine now.”

“Yes. You are.”

“Gorilla.” She rubbed her arm.

“I am sorry.” He kissed the spot lightly and stroked it with his surgeon’s fingers. “Are you well? Perhaps you should sleep again. Look at me and tell me how you feel.”

She turned and looked into his blue-grey eyes. “Better than I’ve ever felt.” A smile was starting to curve her lips.

“Be precise.”

“Fine. I, Herr Science Professor, am far too awake to sleep. You may write that down in your notebook.”

“You have become extremely disrespectful.” He did not sound at all put out.

“Terribly. I deserve punishment. A spanking. Maybe even a tongue-lashing.” She leered at him so idiotically that he almost laughed again. He lifted a brow instead. How did he assume the authority of the classroom while he was naked and rumpled, sharing a too-small bed with her? She continued. “You should probably do that thing you mentioned earlier.” 

“If you are very good, I will consider it.” He put a fingertip on her beautiful lower lip. “But since you are so full of energy. Use this. Make it slow.” Slow was the best way to make it fast. 

Her eyes brightened at his command, as if - as if, he thought, she had missed this, this in particular. It made him desperate to have her again. What no-one understood when they giggled about whips and chains and the Marquis de Sade was this: it wasn’t Leonie sucking his cock that he wanted, though that was in no way a drawback. It was that she was desperate to be told to do it, that she relaxed and smiled and _bloomed_. It was the rapture in her face when he held her down and made her come.

He hadn’t expected to come again, not so soon, but the sight of Leonie, all golden shadows in the half-light, rags of her nightgown exposing hints and curves, gave his desire a knife’s edge. She was so eager to please him. Her looks up through her lashes were irresistible. She had said she loved him. She did this as if he was cherished, and he believed it. He buried his fingers in her hair, to caress, to control, to feel how she moved, to touch her, touch her anywhere. 

She nestled to his side, after, and he crushed her close. “My dear one.” He drew a deep breath with a hint of tremulousness. 

She sat in his lap now, where she loved to be. His fingers slid under the remains of her nightgown, which she somehow still wore. She blushed very pink. “Lie your head back against my shoulder.” He covered her eyes with his hand, and she gave a pleased gasp.“Are you comfortable so? Good. Now part your thighs, Leonie.” 

He tried to find a way through the folds of the wretched nightgown. “How are you still wearing this? What must I do?”

“It’s very comfortable.” She sounded smug, curled up in his lap like a cosseted pet. 

“You’re going to mend the _verdammt_ thing, aren’t you. I forbid it.”

She sighed happily. “You can try.”

He did not groan when he found her wet again, from pleasing him. He pressed her head back into his shoulder with the hand covering her eyes - just enough to give the idea of restraint - while the other made slow, rhythmic movements beneath the fabric. Her breath was shallow. 

He spoke softly, his lips just touching her ear. “You are so pretty like this, dear one.” It was nothing but the truth. “You tremble and gasp so well. That’s perfect, yes, like that.” He kissed the soft skin under her ear as he stroked her, just a touch slower than she wanted. “Such a good, good girl.” She made fervent but incoherent sounds of agreement, pushing against his hand. “You’re doing so well. You’re so wet we’re going to have to change these sheets again.” She wriggled her bottom against his cock, and his circulatory system valiantly tried to redirect blood to the area. He pushed his fingers into her, and she whined. “Squeeze tight. Tighter. Pretend it’s my cock inside you. _Ach,_ yes. Good, my treasure.” He whispered against her temple, the soft hairs tickling his cheek. Her hips were making small, near-involuntary movements now, as she tried to chase her climax. “You’re doing so well. Don’t come yet. No.” She whimpered in complaint, and he found himself breathing hard, wishing he could take her again. “Wait. Wait.” His fingers slid against her, inside her. He slowed, and her knuckles went white. He continued. She made desperate little noises like she was about to lose her reason. The noises stretched out, went wild and erratic. _Yes._ “Now. Come for me now, beloved.” And she cried aloud and turned into a ball around his arm.

And then she did what she always did, after. She looked at him with awe, like he had done magic. She touched his face with light fingers, caressing his cheek, his lips. He held her next to his heart and thought of how he had nearly lost her. They drifted in half-sleep.

There was a sound on the walk outside, like a foot scuffing a flagstone. Leonie tensed. Cabal sleepily tried to gather her close again. It had been a long, terrible night and a very active evening, and he was feeling the fatigue.

Leonie cleared her throat. “Johannes. I haven’t wanted to mention this, because it might rather spoil the evening. But you did say you sent Great-Aunt to my father, didn’t you?”

Downstairs, there was the sound of a key in the lock.


End file.
